Credo Purus Mens
by Alone Dreaming
Summary: Short of their memories and lost on an apparently deserted planet, the bridge crew must solve the mystery of what happened. That is, if they can figure out who they are first.
1. Chapter 1

**_Credo Purus Mens_**

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating:** T or PG-13 for language and gore (pretty typical for me, folks) and bad Latin (not so typical for me)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek. If I did, this would not be posted under fan fiction.

**Warnings: **For this chapter, long exposition with little conclusion or revelation. For future chapters, blood, sickness, language, confusion, pronoun usage, general lack of explanations and many, many more.

**Author's Note: **This pet project of mine is neither finished nor near an end point. While half-written, it's grown massively and I feel it is time to introduce it to the world in order to help it grow. Happily, I can say it's got enough chapters to satisfy people for a bit (as long as I post once a week instead of once every other day which, apologies, will be the pattern for this tale) and that I intend on finishing it as soon as possible. Note, as always, that this was written on a combination of Word Pad and paper so grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. Feel free to help me with them but be gentle-- it's really rather difficult. But most of all, enjoy the tale.

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_The existence of forgetting has never been proved: We only know that some things don't come to mind when we want them. _

-Friedrich Nietzsche

He didn't know where he was but he knew it was beautiful. Spindly, green-leaved trees twirled high above his head, their roots burrowed in thick, orange clay. Shorter foliage, consisting of spiky bushes and softer, grass-like plants decorated the ground, sprouting amidst the gravel that dotted the mud. Flowers blossomed on some of these, a whole variety of colors ranging from purple to yellow, in every size and style he could think of. They smelled sweet, and yet, not overpowering as their voluminous quantities would dictate. Instead, they added to the scent of the clean air and emphasized the earthy undertones of mud. The trees dabbled in this scent as well, so mild that they were barely perceptible beyond the occasional tang on his taste buds when he drew in deep breaths. As he drifted through this heavenly place, his tattered boots stumbling over the loose pebbles that made up the path, he could hear the gentle whispers of the wind in the upper reaches of the trees and the quiet howl as it whipped through tiny spaces. It was lovely, picturesque, something of fairy tales with the dew decorating the bushes and the distant call of tiny woodland creatures. And he found it completely disconcerting because he didn't have the faintest idea as to where he was. No matter how hard he considered it, he could not come across a name for this place or knowledge of how he'd ended up in it. Close on it's tail was the underlying panic of not knowing exactly how he could define the scents, sights and sounds with his mind so empty. He had no basis for comparison, no other experiences to compare it to. His mind was a hole, deep, dark, empty and volatile. He tried not to think on it too hard, tried to enjoy the splendor around him but nothing could fill the pit. It echoed the wind, demanded that he ponder how he had gotten here and why he had come in the first place, and then it tormented him when he could not find an answer.

Though he heard and perceived life around him, he saw little than the landscape and found this equally unnerving. Every time he came upon a rustling in the bushes, whatever was there bolted before he could lay eyes on it. The animals in the trees always stayed in batches of leaves, only present in the sounds they made and the occasional branches they dislodged. This also unnerved him because it made him feel vulnerable. It was impossible to defend against an invisible enemy, his mind told him, leaving him to wonder where this paranoia stemmed from and why he so readily agreed with it. Eventually, in order to sate it, he armed himself with a long stick from the edge of the path but found no reason to use it. The animals continued to keep to themselves and he met no one else on the road. All that appeared to dwell here was the path he walked on and the forest he did not wish to approach. He kept the stick all the same.

The pathway breached at the top of a hill which overlooked purple mountains surrounded by misty clouds. The nearest of these mountains held a greenish haze cast by the trees and the ones that were furthest away appeared as black shadows, wrapped in fog. He stood there for a moment, drinking in the beauty, pondering what this place was and why no one else was here to appreciate it as he was. There had to be some sort of darkness, some sort of malice dwelling behind the perceived perfection otherwise he would surely come across a fellow traveler. Below him, the path sloped steeply into a gorge filled with trees, not all that different from the one he had just ascended from, changing his mind from the subject of touring alone to the silliness of continuing in monotony. Sooner or later he would need sustenance and shelter, neither of which the path or the forest provided. Though he could inevitably find fluids-- he was certain he'd heard a river as he walked-- he could not even begin to fathom what was edible around here. He needed civilization.

His eyes squinted against the hazy light, searching one last time for any sign of someone like himself that could, possibly, provide him with direction. The nearest hill held nothing but the trees and the next closest appeared the same. This second view over gave him the same information as the initial one; there was nothing before him that resembled sentient life. At the same time, there was no point in going back either as he knew for certain there was no house behind him. He could not shake the impression that he'd been here for days-- despite his memory being fickle-- and that those days behind him were the same as the hours he'd experienced today. A new seed of confusion, doubt and fear entered his mind; he could not recall where he had started or how long ago he'd done so or any specific event beyond walking, walking, walking. But he put it away with the other thoughts, trying to focus on safety, if it was possible to find.

Without any other choice, he descended into the gorge and soon was wrapped again by the trees on all sides. The shadows cast by the leaves did not frighten him, but neither did they comfort. His legs and feet were aching with the strain of the climbing and he began to balance some of his weight on the stick. He reminded himself that he could not turn back because there was no where to turn. The grumbling hunger in his stomach told him he had missed at least one meal if not more. His throat was of no use to him as it was parched uncomfortably but not unbearably. He knew he'd consumed fluids recently, when, he could not recall, as thinking back far left him with only mangled images and beyond them, a solid blank.

Sometime further, as the ground started to rise upwards again, he stopped, sitting down in the middle of the path and studied the shoes on his feet. They were black, solid but not meant for the arduous hiking that he currently embarked upon. The soles on them had been thoroughly worn down to the point of almost being flat. The left one had several stones embedded in it and at the toe, had disintegrated down to his sock. He studied his pants next, black and made of comfortable material but again, not created for heavy exploration. They seemed, to him, to be part of a uniform of some sort though he could not define where he'd acquired this knowledge. Rents decorated the knees and cuffs, giving them a sorry, used look. He knew these were from multiple occasions where his footing had been misplaced and he had tumbled. His shirt, long sleeved and red, was also tattered but it did not fit as perfectly as his pants. It was tight in the arms and short at the wrists; if he raised his shoulders, the bottom of it rode up and revealed his pale midsection. This shirt was not his, though it belonged to the uniform in general. Another mystery, he decided, to add to the wonders. Why was he dressed like this?

Upon finishing his break, he continued forward, delighted by the fact that his path seemed to be heading towards an ever increasing sound. It was a rushing, splattering noise which he associated with a river or a source of water. This would be a blessing as his mouth had gone from dry to desert-like and his throat itched from a culmination of dust and air. A blister was beginning to form on his heel and irritated him to no end. To make matters worse, the mist, which he had associated with the higher part of the mountains, surrounded him here, dampening his clothing so that it chaffed at his joints. These discomforts took away from the gorgeous surroundings as he attempted to find a less irritating way to travel. He felt as though he was used to some other sort of atmosphere, a sort of perfection where he was never too cold, too hot, too damp, too dry and scolded himself as spoiled. This was not so bad, he told his rubbed, bruised body; life could be much, much worse.

He paused when the path continued, going slightly to the left, but the sound of the river seemed definitely to the right. Where the path continued, there were simply more trees and mists but where it ended, he knew there was refreshing water and a place where he could break. It was a dilemma. Though he did not know where he was or how he got there, he did know that leaving the path was a dangerous proposition. Whatever had made this path was like him-- sentient-- and eventually the path would either fade into disrepair or he would happen upon its creator. Leaving it would mean potentially getting lost in the woods and never coming upon civilization at all. He could wander forever that way, turned around by sounds, the search for nourishment and general lack of direction. At the same time, his thirst demanded sating. Though it was, as of yet, not a desperate sensation, it had already grown steadily from it's initial bothersome attitude. What was less wise: departure from the road or departure from his only certain source of liquid?

He decided to stay on the road at the last second, after his boots touched the green grass and started to carry him towards the river. Beyond the possibility of wandering aimlessly within the depths of the forests, a fear of what might lurk within its shadowy grasps had suddenly seized him. His heart thudded its way into his throat and he had scrambled down onto the road, panting as though he'd run miles. The fear abated, allowing for him to feel ridiculous. From the path, the forest looked gorgeous, inviting and far from malevolent. What was wrong with him? It was logical to choose this path, this route, to mark his way so he could return upon sating his thirst. Why would these benign trees frighten him? There was nothing large and vicious within their depths; if there was, it would have grabbed him long ago. But he could not get himself to step back onto the brown leaves and sprouting bushes; so, to avoid anymore embarrassment, he continued forward on the path. It did not stop him from feeling like a fool.

It wound and wound around through the trees, going uphill than down. Then it started to twist about, leading him in an ever ascending circle. Had it not been such a vastly large one, he knew he would have become dizzy with the spinning. Instead, he found himself intrigued as to where he was going. This led, obviously, to the peak of another hill but what then? He hoped for some sign of others beyond the well-traveled dirt at his feet, some sign that he worked towards an end point and not eternal travel. He paused briefly, trying to pinpoint why it would matter so much beyond the obvious. Again, he found a troubling nothingness where he should have found answers so he pushed on, leaning heavily on the stick.

What felt like a large span of time passed, and still he swirled upwards. The clouds hovered closer, a few of them ominously dark. His chest ached from excursion, his legs sore from carrying him, his arms and hands throbbing as he used the stick as a lever. His one shoe flopped, its bottom peeling away from the top. His skin did not yet touch the ground but the small rocks that decorated it bit at it, bruising it. His rests became more frequent and longer as the exhaustion grew. Soon, he knew, he would not be able to go any further and then what? Could he rest surrounded by these woods in this place when maybe something waited for him? His lack of knowledge sent an overwhelming spike of frustration into his gut and he viciously kicked at the dirt. And yet, he pushed on even as his legs trembled, his arms grew numb and his chest heaved. Something would happen, he tried to assure himself, something would occur.

Just as he thought he would have to lie down and sleep, for his whole body had started to lean dangerously forward and he could not get his muscles to stiffen and hold him, the path leveled out and straightened. The clouds now drifted around him, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Knowing that he had to be very high up, he slowed his already crawling pace to a shuffle, not wanting to unwittingly fall over the edge of a cliff. The trees on either side of him began to thin, leaving only the occasional shrub on the ground. The road widened, and the pebbles became thicker on the ground. His shuffling caused a loud rasping in what was an almost silent place. He stayed over to one side, trying to align himself to where the shrubs were but they vanished after a few more steps. This left him in an open area, covered in grey pebbles and white fog. The only options were to stay where he was and wait for something-- anything-- to happen or be brave and go forward.

He chose the latter, pushing the stick in front of him, staggering without its support. This was necessary, he thought, so that he would not run into anything. Each movement now required an infinite amount of concentration and thought and the nerves caused by the idea of possible death chewed at him. More than once he thought about how wonderful it would be to have a companion with him, someone to reassure him. With this came the longing for memories of everything leading up to this moment. At least then, he would be lost only in person instead of so completely in body and soul. His foot caught a particularly large rock and he fell down hard onto the ground. The stick rolled away from him into the distance and with it, went the fog.

He discovered that he lay, panting, exhausted, soaked, on the top of a huge plateau. Below him were small hills of green and to his sides the large mountains he'd viewed before. Clouds lurked both close by and below, creating an ethereal effect. Far down, he saw the glittering ribbon of the river he'd heard and wished he could reach its satisfying contents to relieve his papery mouth. To his great disappointment, he could find no houses or signs of those who had built the path before him. Dragging himself up, he stared desolately at the continuing expanse of trees and wondered if this meant traveling all the way down the mountain once more. Turning, he looked at the now visible area about him for answers and found only a small pool just beyond him of still, dirty looking water.

Yes, he groaned, yes, it would be a journey down once more.

The stick was gone but he managed to get his body to the edge of the puddle of water. It was no good for drinking, he knew, as he looked at its rusty color and the grayish growth on top of it. But he had no intention of consuming it. A tentative finger tapped it and found it, as he half-expected, half-hoped, to be deliciously cold. Slipping his boots off, he placed them to the side and settled his much abused feet into the shallows. Relief slowly took away the ache and burn and he sat heavily at the bank of the water, dreading the journey back to the gorge. He should have taken the route to the river after all. Now, he had wasted hours and energy pursuing a lost cause.

"It would be awesome," he muttered, "if I could find a way out of this godforsaken woods."

He sat for a while longer, until the fog started to return and then, regretfully, slipped his boots back on. Tossing a bit of the water on his face, he stood and found that while he was shaky, he could walk more easily than he could before. A glimpse at the sky revealed the sun sitting high still. He would probably manage to get most of the way down before it set. Taking in a steadying breath, he started limping towards the path. At least it would take a little less endurance to get down, though not much. Keeping his feet from sliding out from under him was nearly as difficult as hauling his tired body up the hill. Even as he thought this, his shoe slipped on the dew encrusted rocks and he staggered to catch himself--

--and discovered, with a jolt, that the path was not there. A row of trees stood where he'd been certain the path had begun, thick and old looking. Obviously, he had gotten turn around. Various rationalizations blazed through his mind as he stared at the sweeping woods. He was tired and the combination of that with the hopelessness of his situation and his frustration at himself was enough to disorient anyone. Muttering this under his breath, he followed the edge of them, searching for the road. It was the only stable part of his life up until now and he would be damned if he lost it.

By the time he reached it, he was nearly panicking again. It was nowhere near where he had last seen it and now that the fog had settled back, he'd lived in terror thinking he would soon fall to his doom. How had he gotten so far from it? His battered shoes settled on the familiar orange dirt and he tried to stop his heart and calm his breathing. Just that splattering of emotions had worn him down to his bones-- an interesting word, which, for some reason, meant more to him than it should-- once more and he stared at the mists thinking he would not survive this. Yes, he was physically fit but this traversing of mountains and rough terrain was not his normal business. His painful body reminded him of it as he started a shuffle back into the woods.

It took him nearly an hour to discover that this was not the path he had journeyed up on. Yes, it looked very similar and it had been the only one he could find, but it was not his. It was completely flat, packed ground dirt which neither climbed nor sank as a path on a mountain should. The trees around it, tall as any of the others had been, were twice as thick as the original forest had been and now, many were covered in brightly colored vines. The mists trickled between them, only obscuring the most distanced of their number and it held a grayish tint that he had not seen before. He rubbed at his arms, feeling chilled for the first time he could recall, even though he should have been cold long before. No sounds issued from around him, leaving only the smacking of his one dying shoe to fill the empty air. What had happened?

He did not stop, turn or look too closely. Ahead became his destination, away became his purpose. How much time passed him was a moot point as long as he could get somewhere new. There was something strange about this place, these woods and this planet. If only he could hop on his shuttle and fly back to-- but then the thought faded from him for he was uncertain what a shuttle was or how it would fly. The destination, which had nearly crossed his mind, got snapped back into the trap of blankness that encompassed him. No more thinking, he decided, just movement until he could move no more. And then, death, sleep, or nothingness; whatever made the most sense.

It was some point after that, he had stopped counting hours, minutes and stopped searching for changes in the sky, that he almost walked into the man. The mist had once again grown thick and he did not see the person. Not that he would've seen it anyway, as most of his concentration was on making his feet continue to move his body. His eyes had drifted down to his torn and uneven shoes a long while ago, watching as they fell apart. It took the sudden contrast of a relatively intact pair of boots against his own cut and bruised feet for him to look up. Inches from his face was another person's. Highly arched eyebrows decorated his forehead and his skin had a light green tinge to it. His face did not express anything, though one of his eyebrows twitched in a manner that reminded the traveler of someone he knew; he just had no idea who that was.

"Do I know you?" he inquired because it seemed rational.

"Your answer lies in your question," the man replied smoothly. "Why waste the energy to ask it?"

He shrugged and felt the shirt tighten across his back. His breath came out clear in the mists, "It just seemed like the right one for the moment."

"I see," the man replied but the traveler got the distinct impression that he did not. "Well, be assured, sir, that I do not know you therefore, logically, you cannot know me unless by hearsay but I would postulate knowledge and knowing are not the same. Now, I must hasten on."

"Do you have somewhere to go?" he blurted out as the man edged around him.

The man stopped. "Currently, I am seeking shelter. As there is nothing the way I came, I can only assume that it lies ahead."

"There's nothing that way for miles," the traveler told him. He felt rather weak and dizzy now and the air, which had been merely bothersome before, was becoming a serious detriment to his state. Wrapping his arms around his chest, he tried not to shiver. "Trust me, I just walked it."

The man looked down the pathway and then back to the traveler. "There must be something. There is nothing the way you are going. If it is true there is nothing the way you came, then tell me, where did you come from?"

He didn't know. It should have panicked him but he accepted it with as much poise as possible. It seemed necessary to be in control with this man who showed no emotions. "I-- I cannot remember." His teeth rattled in his mouth so he clenched them.

"Fascinating," the man murmured, "neither can I."

"Birds of a feather," the traveler said, equally soft, though somewhat garbled due to his trembling.

The man's eyebrow twitched. "Pardon?"

"Birds of a feather," the traveler repeated.

"What do you mean by this?"

"I--" he stopped. "I'm not sure. I think I knew, once."

"I see."

They stood together, he shaking and the man alternating between looking down where the traveler had come from and looking down from where he'd emerged. His hands were folded behind his back, giving him the appearance of someone completely at ease despite the weather. The traveler, meanwhile, experienced the strange sensation of his body refusing to obey his commands. The dimness in his vision spread over his left eye, blocking out his sight entirely. His right eye continued to dwell in a murky place but still allotted him enough ability to study the man's strange, pointed ears. Enjoying the coup, his head had decided to go light as a feather and he swayed with the passing breezes. At the same time, the realization that he would not find shelter if he continued to progress sank in. The man said no civilization lay on the path he attended to so vigorously. While this could possibly be untrue, he felt inclined to believe the man's words. Something about his voice, his lack of feeling and his speech patterns told the traveler that he was not given to lying. That, combined with the idea that he must've known this man somewhere, assured him that this was the truth and that he was struggling in vain. His head, trying to flutter up with the non-existent birds, refused to attach itself to the bubbling frustration that resulted from this and he had to cling to it with his heart instead. It gave him an electrical burst of stubbornness. He would not give up; he would find a way out of here somehow.

"Well," he said, breaking their silence. "It seems like we are both lost souls in search of a warm bed and meal with little hope of finding it. I think we ought to travel together."

The man processed this and consented. "It would be logical to have a companion in an unknown area so that one has support in case a volatile incident occurs."

"Excellent," he managed, though his enunciation was terrible. His eyes had failed him completely. "But, before we go, I think I should know your name."

"I cannot tell you that," the man said, firmly.

"And why not?"

"Because," the man said, "I am currently unaware as to what it would be."

Then it struck him, as his knees buckled, and he started a descent into his own blank mind. "Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about myself."

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Chapter Two (written and being edited) will be up on Monday unless I have a whizz of inspiration and write two or three new chapters. Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews/favorites/alerts. I apologize for the double post on the last chapter. It appears the website had a day or two where it did not want to work appropriately. I shall not hold this against it-- really. Anyway, please read and enjoy! A second apology for any grammar/spelling as this chapter has only been edited twice and I generally do it three or four times.

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Pleased to meet you  
Hope you guess my name  
But whats puzzling you  
Is the nature of my game

-Rolling Stones, "Sympathy for the Devil"

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It was simpler to call his state unconsciousness though it held peculiar additions associated with sleep. For instance, he saw-- maybe dreamt?-- swirling impossible images of flashing colors, faces and smatterings of stars. The information was allusive, the faces contrived and the scenarios fantastical nothings. As he came out of the state, he felt as though he may have been slightly restored from rest, but consciousness was slow coming and almost painful. The visions which he should have recalled had already descended behind the wall of white which surrounded most of his mind. Only small bits, an occasional eye, word or plan, brushed his waking mind and carefully stayed out of reach of his processing brain. As he hunted them, he first became aware of his body and how utterly abused every piece of it felt though the ache in his feet and legs far out weighted the rest. It conflicted with the strange nothingness that had replaced his head, the airy, feather like non-existence, a balloon snapped from a string. The rest of him was sympathetic with his feet and legs, whining about overuse and pain. And the things that did not outright hurt, such as his left ear and his eyelashes, decided that they did not appreciate being left out; his ear started to itch and his eyelashes twitched against his cheeks, causing an unpleasant tickling sensation. It all joined together, becoming an orchestra which strummed a great symphony of suffering. He attempted to flee it, to dive back into the half-remembrances, but was stuck listening to the cacophony. This, untamed and vicious, was not sleep which gradually fades and can become bound to a person's will; this was unconsciousness-- and maybe hell-- which comes and goes as it pleases. He wanted relief, wanted it now, wanted to find a warm, comfortable place to curl up and be safe from it all. If only such a place existed-- if only he could remember what such a place was.

The only way he could find relief was to open his eyes and this proved to be much easier to think than achieve. At some point, they'd transformed into solid bulbs of lead and his best attempts to control them ended in the briefest twitching of reluctant lids and the slightest roll of the eyes beneath them. Even this action fell in and out of his grasp, frustrating him as the music of pain reached a crescendo and blotted thought from his mind. He could live with the oscillation between wakefulness and sleep; by themselves, they were barely annoying as they simply resembled a restless night. But there was no distraction in the world of half-conscious stumbling and he needed something to focus on other than the bass drums of his injured feet and the strumming strings through his torso. It was the urge to escape that made him persevere against his body and the never ending daylight-- once a blight against him, now a blessing-- of the planet with no name surrounded him overwhelmingly.

Or, surrounded the face looming startlingly close to his own. It was huge, haloed in the bright lights and positively bewildering. With so much of his limited energy poured into working his eyes, he had not yet grasped movement in his limbs and found he could not escape this head of doom. Maybe in the future he could at least turn away but at the moment, he was forced to stare into the eyes and wonder if this face was out to destroy him. The worst bit was the face did not seem to realize his concerns for it smiled broadly at him and leaned even closer. He could feel breath on his cheek as the warm eyes crinkled at the edges.

"Ye had me worried there," an accented voice said. "I thought ye may not wake up at all. Be a damn shame for ye to die considering you may be just one of five people in this whole God forsaken place."

Two thoughts attacked his mind one straight after the other. The first, and most pressing, was that the face and breath and voice needed to pull away lest he pass out from claustrophobic confusion. He tried to part his lips to inform this person above him of such and the next thought occurred to him. While his mouth moved without any serious complications, his tongue had latched to the roof of his mouth. It refused detach, cemented by the last remnants of saliva. Only quick, slightly wheezy breaths came from him and those did not portray his desires in the a remotely accurate fashion. The person did back up, but not as much as the traveler would have found comfortable, his previously happy face now creasing with concern.

"Ye aren't going to die on me now, are ye?" he queried, his ill-fitting blue shirt wrinkling about him. "Not after I brought down that pointy eared bastard who was attacking you."

This was the first time he realized that this person was not the same as the one he'd spoken to previously. This person's face did not have the same alien aura as the previous man's had. He had a bit of scruff growing on his features which were neither shaded green nor marked with the strange eyebrows. His hair was a different shade than the other's had been though his clothing closely resembled both the traveler's and the man's; the only difference was the shirt color, adding a third to the collection of shades the traveler had viewed: red, his own, yellow, the man's and now, blue. Unlike the man he'd decided to travel with, this person had a stockier build and a whole range of expressions. This met with his accent, making him so obviously different that even the traveler's muddled mind wondered how he'd missed it.

The words sunk in and the traveler attempted speech once more only to fail miserably. His lips cracked, bled and he became aware of a severe quaking rushing through him. The air, damp and chilled, soaked into his being and clothing, making him wet and acutely miserable The warmth from before-- which he had considered unbearable-- became a bright figment from the past and he wished he had not squandered his time in it so foolishly. It would be a mild comfort, a bit of a barrier between the ever building pile of ills that plagued him. The person hovering seemed almost distraught over his physical distress, reaching out tentatively to touch his shoulder, jerking back and then letting his hand fall upon the traveler's arm. He leaned over towards his left, returning seconds later with a clear bottle half-filled with liquid.

"Think you can manage some?" the person asked nervously. "Tried to get some into ye earlier but it would've been easier to--" The person trailed off, frowning. "Never mind, I'll help ye sit up now, nice and slow."

His body had all the strength of wet tissue but the necessity for water was overwhelmingly controlling. With the person's supporting hands, he managed to be propped up partially. The bottle was pressed against his dried out face and blessed water dripped into his mouth, loosening his tongue and soothing his agonized throat. He started to suck the water in with vigor, his body craving more, his thirst changing from painfully unbearable to unquenchable in seconds. The water he gained was not enough to repress it, only making it insatiable, controlling, so when the bottle was taken away from him, he felt strung out like an addict.

"No more-- ye'll get yerself sick," the person said, placing the bottle on the ground.

The water loosened his vocal cords enough for him to speak though he thought his words sound strangely clipped and slurred. "Whad 'appened?" He knew the answer-- he'd collapsed-- but the disconcerting comment about 'bringing down that pointy eared bastard' prompted him to inquire anyway.

"I'm not sure," the person admitted. "I came 'round that bend right over there," he motioned with his hand to the forest, surround by thick mists but all the traveler saw were trees, "and there you two were. He had his hands on yer head and you, my friend, were screaming to bloody Mary, Jesus and all the saints. So, took this thing," he waved a cylindrical-- hypo, the traveler remembered suddenly-- thing, "and jabbed it in that guy's neck. You stopped screaming, he keeled over." His brow wrinkled slightly. "Mind you, I'm not sure exactly what I did but certainly got him off of ye. Sleeping like a babe."

He blinked over at the man he'd met, who he planned to travel with even though he didn't know his name, and saw the man sprawled on his side, unmoving. Something did not seem right about the person's description of what had happened. The man had not caused his collapse, he knew that much for certain. He would not harm someone without good reason and the traveler had given him none. His persona had not given the impression of any vicious intent. As he processed, he noticed his reasoning for not believing the man would hurt him dealt with feelings instead of facts but considering his mind was completely wiped of the majority of the facts he'd learned in his life, he was willing to trust his gut. At the same time, his instinct told him that this person with the accent was decent as well despite his propensity to invade personal space and attack unprovoked. A misunderstanding could have occurred here, he reasoned as his head started to spin again.

"I don't think he was hurting me," the traveler told the person with the accent.

"Sure sounded like it, lad," the person replied. "It makes me damn nervous to think about the sounds ye were making. Whatever he was doing to ye, it wasn't friendly."

It still didn't feel right. "I don't think--" he began but then stopped himself. The water in his stomach bubbled up towards his throat and he had to concentrate on not allowing it back out his mouth. His head gave a nasty throb as he focused and the pain redoubled. "Aw shit," he managed through clenched teeth.

"Easy there," the accented person replied. "Easy." His hands hung inches from the traveler. A look of desperation settled on his features. "Where are ye from? I'll try to take ye there. I don't know much about this place but if ye live here, surely you know it better. I can get ye home."

"I d-don't know," he mumbled. "D-don't even know… my name…"

His stomach dropped a little when he finally spoke those words. It had been obvious to him before that he knew nothing of himself but actually saying it brought about a reality he had not expected. He was a blank person with no background, no understanding of self. Nothing was certain for him, nothing true from experience or learning. All he had were feelings and even so, he did not know what to make of them because they had no basis. He was a blank person, lost in a world he could not comprehend, surrounded by things and people that both made sense and contradicted his senses. His breath quickened and he could feel his heart speeding up in his chest.

He did not hear what the accented person said in response to his panic and did not care. The ever deepening problem of who he was occupied him, directing his attention away from the outside world and internalizing him almost entirely. He was a blank person, he thought again, an unfailing mantra in his echoing mind, but that alone was not what frightened him. It was the peculiar crawling under his skin, the thing that pounded on the wall of white that blurred the rest of his mind and insisted that this was the worst fucking time ever to not remember. A smaller part of him, in front of the white nothing, calm, cool, collected was stating that he always wanted a fresh start, that this was a perfect time to rebuild, to become someone new. However, beneath the screaming intuition which demanded he had to remember, that there was something important, that he was supposed to be someone, it was insubstantial. It's pathetic cries were drowned out by tidal waves of sensations, of nerves, of emotions; and by the disgusting intuitions that he continually had. He tried to sort it out, tried to pin down everything so he could firmly tell them all to fuck themselves but it was not possible. So he centered on the cool collected voice, the one that was lying, he thought, and told it very firmly what it could do with its platitudes. This was not a fresh start he screamed over the pounding, yelling and smashing of the thing behind the wall. A fresh start is an empty mind, not a blank one; a fresh start does not involve impulses about people you don't recognize and doesn't draw you towards actions you can't remember achieving. You can't make a fresh start when your past hovers over you, invisible but watching and jabbing all the time.

And the calm one stopped. Not because of what he said but at least it silenced itself and left him with the raving lunatic who's words he could not make out because of the distortion of the blankness. He put metaphorical fingers against the wall and shoved against it with all his might, only to be bounced back like it was made of rubber. The voice did not stop, did not grow hoarse, just kept shouting away in it's strange disturbing manner. He knew he had to reach it somehow but could not figure out how to break down the wall between them. Clawing, hitting, shoving, pushing, lifting; none of these worked at all. Going around it was impossible as it reached infinitely to all sides but he attempted it anyway, following the great expanse, trailing his hand over it, waiting for some sort of break, or a lower area that he could scale, or an end point. And his perseverance paid off an eternity later when he hit a changed area. He did not know how he realized it was different-- it did not look radically out of place-- but he stood in front of it knowing this was the entrance. After a moment's observation, the difference became obvious. Part of the wall here was changing colors, orange-gray mixing with the pure blank and creating a sort of hole in the fabric of his mind block. Tentatively, his fingers darted out to touch it and found that they passed through unharmed. Before him was an entrance into everything he had to know; how had he not found it previously? Why was it so difficult to bring it to mind otherwise? He did not know, did not pursue this but instead tried to push himself all the way through into his past.

And succeeded just a little. He got in and saw a jumble of images, of people, of faces which all slammed into him and crushed him. There were voices, shouts, silences, laughs, cries and a skeleton which grinned at him and reached out with boney hands to snatch him. And then, a woman's face, pale, big eyed, smiling, head tilting. Lips, pale but tinted enough to be real, curled up slightly, as though amused and he felt a building pressure.

"Oh," it said. "Fancy this."

And his eyes flew open.

The accented person was no longer present though the man from before still lay only a few feet away. His head pounding with a new intensity, the traveler made his weakened body sit up, ignoring the pain to the best of his ability and the strange lightness that accompanied his limbs. He could not recall exactly what he had seen behind the veil beyond the face and the skeleton and this frustrated him. The unorganized sensations that had accompanied his piercing of the place faded back behind it and he did not have the energy to reach out and hold them. And he could not get back to the wall anymore, the thing that had shoved him away still keeping him back. It was time to leave off on that, he conceded unhappily. Whatever had discovered him regaining who he was would need to let down it's guard before he tried again. Until then, the real world would have to provide a distraction. His eyes flickered over to his unconscious companion and he knew that he must trust this person. The voice correlated with something he'd heard in the shouting crowd of memories, confirming his thought that he must know this man. Tentatively, he reached out and brushed his hand against the man's hand. He received no reaction but the body beneath his fingers was warm. The man was still alive so whatever the accented person had injected into him could not be overly harmful.

"Hey," he said in his hoarse voice. "Wake up." He added a little shake at the end, his fingers resting on the yellow shirt sleeve. "Wake up."

The man stirred slightly only to stop moving once more. Sedative, the traveler thought. He's been given a sedative. Surprised that he knew what that meant and yet heartened that something had stuck with him, he tried shaking a bit harder. He could not use volume, his throat too tight to produce any real noise, so depended on action to do the work for him. His perseverance was rewarded a few moments later when a pair of hazy brown eyes peered up into his own, dazed and unfocused. The man's head tilted to one side and then the other as though he searched for something.

"You awake?" the traveler asked.

"The answer to that question is obvious," the man replied slowly, his voice thick.

The traveler's confidence was bolstered when that answer did not surprise him. Was it possible that he had managed to keep some of the memory particles that he'd sensed? "Just wanted to make certain that you weren't doing the opened eye sleeping thing."

The man raised an eyebrow at him. "I am not doing so."

"So you said."

The man turned towards the road again, his eyes gaining more coherence as each second passed. His eyebrows dipped down in concentration and then, with apparently no struggle at all, he sat up. Unlike the traveler, who found extreme difficulty in keeping a vertical position, the man appeared to have no after effects from the medication at all. He put a tentative hand to his neck where the traveler could see a slight green bruise and then pulled back without the slightest trace of pain on his features.

"My memory has failed me again," the man informed him after a moment of orienting himself. "The last clear image I have is attempting to discover who you were after you collapsed. Something struck me and now I am here, speaking with you. Are you aware what occurred in the interval?"

The traveler smiled, slightly, "Uh, somebody thought you were hurting me and got you in the neck with a hypo."

"I was not harming you intentionally," the man said. "There were walls built around your long term memory preventing me from accessing it. I apologize if it caused you any pain."

The traveler shrugged. "I don't remember it." Was that the orange gray? Had the man caused it? If so, should he ask the man to attempt again and widen the weakness in the defenses? "I'm going on word of mouth." A sudden wave of dizziness assaulted him and he nearly tipped over. The man steadied him as he swayed. "Besides, I don't think you'd hurt me."

"What information allows you to draw such a conclusion?" the man asked and he seemed genuinely interested.

For some reason, he was reluctant to tell him why. This man, he deduced, would not understand acting purely on what felt right. But, there was a flipside to this; he sensed that at some point in time, he'd said these sort of things and had come up victorious. So he spoke, "It seems right-- I feel like I know you."

"That's highly illogical," the man replied without hesitation. "You do not know me or what I am capable of. Without experiencing my interactions with either yourself or others, you cannot be certain whether or not I am capable of causing harm."

The traveler shrugged. "Consider it a hunch. Nations have been built on less." Though what nations he referred to, he hadn't a clue and what they'd been built on, not an inkling; it was annoying having to second guess every word that escaped one's lips.

"You are a very strange man," the man said after a pause. "Though I understand where you are coming from. I, too, sense that we have some sort of connection though I do not base it on hunch as much as latent memories."

"Tomato, tomahto," the traveler responded. His vision had once again started to fade.

"I do not--"

"Same difference," the traveler clarified.

"No, you are mistaken. You base what you are saying on feelings while I draw a hypothesis from the facts at hand."

The traveler laughed and the man turned to him as though assessing the reason. The traveler wondered if he should tell him and then decided against it. Now was not the time. "Whatever you say." He started to droop forward, his body giving in to exhaustion once more. The man stopped him from falling over, supporting him with both hands now. His fine features showed no reaction to this slow building collapse. "Sorry."

"Your physical state deteriorates steadily," the man noted.

"Yeah," the traveler rasped. "I make a shitty travel buddy."

Beyond them, in the trees, the rustling of movement amongst wood and leaves caused them both to change focus, the man with sharp interest and the traveler with weary curiosity. Betwixt the trees, the accented man emerged, followed by another taller man in a red shirt that did not fit at all. The man behind carried a case with him and had the distinctive look of someone who had been forced into coming. He halted as the person with the accent continued and studied both the people on the ground from his position. His craggy face wrinkled up.

"Good God, man," he said to the person with the accent. "You said they were just a little roughed up."

"They are," the man with the accent replied. "See, both sitting up, breathing, moving, and so on. Just a wee bit messed about the edges. Am I right?" He looked warily at the man and then to the traveler. "Not torturing you, I'd hope?"

"Not physically anyway," the traveler whispered, his head drifting with the mists in circles.

The man's eyebrows raised. "I've never tortured this person."

"Then explain why I found him screaming and you hovering over him?" the person with the accent demanded.

"I was merely seeking answers."

The traveler followed the argument in the distant fashion of someone watching a ping pong match. Who won didn't matter, so much as he could watch the ball pass back and forth between equally interesting and talented opponents. He barely recognized another presence until a hand tapped his arm. Turning away from the sparring, he saw the man in the red shirt crouching beside him. A flash of the skeleton smacked int his vision and he jerked ever so slightly. And with it he knew this person, knew that this was more than just a comrade like the man and the person with the accent; this person was a friend, someone close, a cohort in the execution of many a shifty idea, someone who knew him better than anyone.

"'lo," he mumbled. He watched as the man opened the case. "You a doctor or something?"

"As far as you know, yes," the man in the red shirt said.

"You aren't sure?" The traveler's neck had turned soft and his head kept flopping about.

"Nope." The man in the red shirt inspected his feet, his expression growing downright thunderous when he saw the damage. He opened his mouth to lecture-- somehow, the traveler realized that the outcome was a diatribe about taking care of one's body-- but instead, grasped the traveler's shoulders. The man, who had been in deep argument with the person with the accent, stopped as he felt himself be relieved of the weight. In turn, the person with the accent also ceased. The man in the red shirt had a set of fingers on his neck and seemed very unhappy about what he'd found. Whatever, the traveler thought, his eyes wandering the tops of the trees now.

What had happened? He had come no closer to discovering his pass in his brief traipse into memories than he had been before. While he felt slightly closer to discovery, as proved by his immediate recognition of the pseudo-doctor and his solidified trust in the man with the yellow shirt, he could not come up with a reason for them all to be here, in this odd place, with no memories. It was all interrelated, obviously but he could not come up with any of the logistics unless he took another trip behind the veil; and that was off limits for the moment, the gigantic pale face still guarding it like a junkyard dog. The little snippets of facts which kept approaching him reminded him how pivotal knowledge would be in unraveling the situation and solving it. It would explain how they all knew each other and why they were all here. It would reveal the something that had caused this, left them wandering the ceaseless paths of this place. And, to make things time oriented, he came to an abrupt conclusion that whatever had done this, whatever had put the face in his mind, was malevolent. Too many supposes, he thought, too many questions, too many half-facts and broken images. It would all have to wait until later. For now, he was weary down to his bones.

Bones.

His vision reminded him of looking through the branches of the trees. It came in patches and then, it was unfocused and difficult to concentrate on. He was lying down, the craggy faced man over him and judging by his expression, he was saying something of consequence. The traveler's ears weren't working and, even without knowledge of who he was, he was fairly certain he'd never been able to read lips. Bones-- the word echoed through his mind again as he studied the visage in front of him. Bones; why was that word so important?

"We need to get him back to the house," he heard at a distance. "He needs a warm place to rest."

And then it clicked. That voice, that face, that person; Bones. His name was Bones.

"Bones," he whispered.

The man in the red shirt reacted immediately. "What was that?"

"Bones," he repeated and then he drifted away.

* * *

Next Monday:

"You think I'm crazy but I know you're called Bones. And I saw her. In the dress. In here. And there was a girl with blonde hair…"

"Listen, kid, as far as I'm concerned, everything in this place is crazy. You, me, her, Blue and your pointy eared friend. I don't know who I am, where I am or how I got here but I have a very particular set of skills which suggests I knew a lot more not so long ago. So, yeah, I think you're crazy but I am pretty damn sure the rest of are too. Now, shut up."

See ya there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the reviews. Hope you enjoy this chapter just as much. It's a bit shorter but the chapter afterwards, once I have it fully sorted out, is longer and will make up for it. Here's right when the plot starts so enjoy!

* * *

You were on my mind at least nine tenths of yesterday

It seems as if perhaps I'd gone insane

What is it about you that has commandeered my brain?

-Kimya Dawson, "My Rollercoaster"

* * *

He woke up slung over someone's shoulder, his whole body swaying with the motion of walking. His fingers hovered inches above a black, paved road, decorated with thin cracks and the occasional pothole. Leaves edged the road, brown and crumbled, leading up to the all too familiar woods that sparsely held either side of the path. He did not have the strength to raise his head very far but the small tilt he managed, complimented by his carrier stumbling, allowed him to see that the trees had progressively thinned and if it continued, soon there would be none at all. Between them, he saw not leaves or foliage but thick, curly grass sprouting in unorganized clumps. This grass was juxtaposed against grey slate and shockingly green moss that sat at the bases of the waning trees. It reminded him of something that he could not unveil from his brain, like so many other things he'd stumbled across since his trek started. There was another missed step and this time he let out a surprised grunt as the air was knocked out of him. The person stoped moving and, breathlessly, called to him.

"You awake, kid?"

He croaked. "Yeah."

"Think you can walk? I've got some bandages on your feet and it's not too far."

"Yeah," he lied, his head throbbing a rhythm with his heart and the rest of his aches-- most especially his feet-- starting to reappear with a vengeance. The person bent forward slowly and he felt fire as his feet hit the pavement. Bile leaped into his throat but he suppressed the urge to vomit. He clung to the person's shoulders as he tried to get control, allowing the person to maneuver him about until they were standing next to each other with his arm around the person's shoulders. It was the man in the red shirt, he noted, Bones he was called.

"Easy does it," Bones cautioned as he wrapped an arm about the traveler's waist. "There you go. House is just up there. See it?"

Now that he was facing forward, the house was easily visible. Just a few feet before them, the forest disappeared entirely, leaving the fluffy grass to carpet the ground and sprout tiny pink flowers. Along the edge of the path, a decrepit white fence was erected, guiding it up to a red door and a tarnished silver handle. The house attached to the door used to be a lovely yellow but had fallen into a grayish green color, dotted with mold and rot. The shingles, red to match the door, had cracked and a few had gone missing all together. Everything about it spoke of desertion or severe neglect and the traveler wondered, his mind tired of his continually growing list of questions, why anyone would let something so magnificent fall so far.

"It's a shame, isn't it?" Bones read his mind, addressing the subject as the two of them stumbled their way up. "If I had a place like this somewhere, I'd never let this happen to it."

The traveler spoke between ragged inhales. "It's not… yours?"

"Nope. Blue and I found it and it was better than sleeping in the woods. There are beds and rooms, and nothing can beat a cellar full of food."

His stomach clenched in agreement with this statement, causing him to gag again. Bones stopped their journey so the traveler could bend over and vomit into the grass on the side of the path. It was watery, lacking any substance, but it made the traveler feel even sicker to look upon. He took a quick breath in through his nose and let it out slowly from his mouth. The house was close and it was shelter though not the one he would have chosen. He also had companions and while they were less informed than he, they were people he could depend on should his situation grow dire. He used his free hand to wipe his mouth and signaled Bones he was ready to move again.

"What… happened… to the others?" he queried as they drew closer in order to distract himself from the pain and nausea.

"Blue's taken that pointy eared bastard out to the shack," Bones intoned in a manner the traveler translated as soothing. "He won't hurt you anymore."

"He didn't hurt me in the first place," the traveler informed him, tripping and relishing the fact that this time, someone stopped him from falling. "He wouldn't hurt me."

Bones appeared incredulous. "You know him?"

"No more than I know you," the traveler admitted. "But I feel like I've met him before. He wouldn't hurt me intentionally."

"If you say so," Bones replied. "But, just in case he's not friendly to everyone, we're keeping him locked up."

The traveler did not agree with this behavior at all and felt he ought to speak up. What held him back was not fear as much as the feeling that, as a guest, he should respectfully abide by the laws of the house. If these people wished for the man to stay in the shed, then he would stay in the shed. But the traveler, in solidarity, would also stay in the shed until the unfounded prejudices were overlooked. They were all the same, the lot of them, all people without memories and without knowledge of where the road of life was supposed to take them. As such, they should have been banding together and working towards the goal of discovery. He did not understand why Bones and the man with the accent-- Blue as he was referred to-- would not see this as he did. His lips parted to inform the man supporting him that he too would like to go to the shack when he tripped over a pothole in the road and nearly fell. The pain from his feet was so phenomenal as he stumbled that he quite forgot what his intentions were. Bones nearly had to swing him back over his shoulder again in order to get him up the three stairs to the house and through the red chipped door.

They stepped into a hallway that had, at one time, been magnificent. The floors, though warped with water stains, age and dust, were dark wood, carefully laid so the grain all went the same way. Beneath the damage, he could see it had once been varnished and polished on a regular basis. Where the floor ended and the walls began, there was a similar grey-dirty color to the outside of the house interrupted by covered pictures and candle stands. Pushed against the walls were various pieces of furniture, some covered in sheets while others were freed of their bindings. Above all of this, a high arched roof hovered, supported on beams that matched the floor in color but looked as though they had images carved into them. Several chandeliers dangled from this, covered with cobwebs and candle wax.

The decay of age had brought this place to ruin but the traveler was still awed by its previous splendor. In his mind's eye, he could see flickering white candles in the holders above his head and shiny floors beneath his feet. The candle holders on the walls were shaded with glass covers, casting a color menagerie on the walls. Furniture-- chairs, couches, tables with books and knick knacks-- was uncovered and filled with unfamiliar people who were laughing and chatting. Their clothing was strange to him but not in a completely unknown fashion; it simply seemed to him that they did not regularly wear it. On the walls, the pictures were uncovered, displaying macabre portraits of death and despair. In front of the one closest to him, a dark haired woman with exotic features in a long red dress which accentuated her thin figure stood, a glass of wine in hand. Her hair was styled in ringlets, flowing over her shoulders and framing her face prettily. Next to her, \a dark haired man with pale features and sharp eyes hovered. His ears were slightly pointed at the top.

"Shit, kid," Bones jerked him from the imaginings by shoving him into one of the chairs. His head ached with a sudden ferocity, especially on the left side. Something warm trickled down the side of his face as well as over his upper lip. He reached up to wipe it away but was held back by his companion who'd produced, from nowhere, a handkerchief and was holding it under his nostrils. "Hold this. That's it, we need to stem that flow." He was peering into the traveler's eyes. "Shit. How do you feel?"

"Just as crappy as before," he snipped, now grumpy on top of everything else. The new pain in his head had melded with the old and left him feeling doubly drained. The chair he was sitting in was stiff backed and lumpy, not at all conducive to rest but he was so worn down that he thought he could probably still doze off in it. "What's wrong?"

Bones frowned. "Your bleeding out your nose and ear. Pupils are dilating. Headache? Dizziness?"

He blinked once or twice and pulled the handkerchief away. It was damp with blood already but Bones forced him to reapply it. "Head hurts but I'm no more dizzy than before. Why? What's it mean?"

"Not a clue," Bones said, frustration tainting his words. "Obviously not a good thing though. I want to get you to a room where you can rest." He took the traveler's face in his hands, grasping it more firmly when the traveler tried to pull away, and studied his ear. "Think you can make it just a bit further? I don't want to have to sling you over my shoulder if your head's about to explode."

He shrugged and together, they heaved him from the chair. Bones walked more rapidly now, not letting him take in the hallway with the same fervor. They turned a corner and then entered the second door on the left. By the time they passed into it, he was sweating and panting, trying to keep his arm up and holding the bloody handkerchief. The first thing he noticed was that this room had been a large sitting room. The second thing was that it was considerably cleaner than the other parts of the house he'd seen. While still a bit musty, the furniture was all uncovered and the thick, rich carpeting on the ground did not send out plumes of filth when he stepped onto it. The walls had pictures, still draped over, but most of this place was lined with bookshelves. He could see more people, unfamiliar and yet, people he knew, staying here, too, laughing and reading and celebrating. To his left was a young woman with blonde hair done up in a bun dressed in a dark, blue dress which brought out her eyes. She turned to him, smiled and said, "Who would've thought you cleaned up so well, Kirk?"

"That's 'Captain Kirk' to you," he returned playfully.

Then he was on a couch, half propped up against the arm, Bones holding the handkerchief in one hand and clutching his wrist in the other. Blood from his nose was running down the back of his throat now, causing him to gag a bit. He swallowed hard, trying to force it away from his taste buds and grimaced both at the nausea that ensued and the throbbing agony it movement caused his head.

"Easy," Bones soothed. "Just hold still. You with me again?"

He hadn't passed out so the question was a bit disconcerting. Sure, he'd spaced for a moment but he'd been basically aware of his surroundings. "Didn't go anywhere in the first place."

"Of course not. Except for fainting thing. Luckily, we were nearly at the couch so I dragged you the last bit of it."

"I don't pass out," he argued weakly.

"Bullshit. Since I've met you, you've passed out twice. And judging by your color, I wouldn't be surprised-- though I'd really prefer you stayed awake until I'm sure your brain isn't hemorrhaging-- if you do it again." Bones held up a hand. "How many fingers?"

"Two and a thumb."

"Close enough," Bones conceded, pulling back the handkerchief and frowning. "I need to see if we have something better lying around for this and grab my med kit from Blue. Take this," he guided one of the traveler's hands up, "and stay awake until I get back. Got it?" The traveler gave him a lazy slur of an answer and his eyes narrowed. "You are staying awake."

"Course I am," the traveler muttered irritably. "Just a bit hazy is all. Think I'm allowed to be."

Bones gave him an eye roll. "Two seconds. I need you to stay up for two seconds."

"One, two. Now what?"

"Smart ass," the older man muttered as he crossed the room. "Your eyes better be staying open."

He didn't answer, tilting his head back instead so that he could stare up at the ceiling. The carvings in the hallway extended to here too but his vision was not strong enough to make out the details of it. As he focused, again the laughing and music came to him and for the first time, he wondered if this was not, in fact, a figment of his overactive imagination but instead, a memory. The men in their smart blue outfits mixed with the women who wore every color imaginable. Some of them did not look quite right, their bodies shaped differently, their skin color not the same as his, their eyes too big or too many. This did not bother him overmuch. What bothered him more was a perfectly normal looking pair mingling with the others.

"Bloody, stuck up wankers," a familiar voice intoned. Blue walked up to him, pulling at his collar and looking decidedly out of place. "I dunnae know how ye talked me into this."

"Loosen up," he heard his own voice urge. "Have a drink. Flirt with Ensign Gonzalez from Communications."

The man rolled his eyes. "Can't flirt in a monkey suit, Captain. And it would be a wee bit easier to relax if ye didn't look like a hunted man yerself."

A slap on his face brought him back to real life in a wave of colors and images. The house was, once again, dirty and faded. Bones was back, annoyed and nervous at the same time, a fresh piece of cloth in hand to replace the sodden handkerchief. But he was not what interested the traveler. On Bones's other side, closer to the traveler's feet, stood a dark young woman wearing an overlarge shirt and a pair of greying pants. Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun but there was no mistaking her large brown eyes and gorgeous face.

"Damn it," Bones cursed. "Did you even try?"

He ignored the question. "You were wearing the red dress," he said to her. "And you were with the man."

"Is he delirious, Gruff?" she addressed to Bones with a frown.

"Yes--" Bones started

"No," he interrupted. "No, I remember. You… you and the man with the pointed ears. And the guy with the accent-- Blue…" The throbbing in his head took on a sharper edge and warmth started down the right side of his face too. "And Bones," he met the man's eyes. "You're called Bones."

"No more talking," Bones snapped. To the woman, he said, "Go find Blue and see where he put the med kit. I was going to do it myself but I don't want to leave him alone." She nodded and slid gracefully from the area without a sound. "How do you feel?"

Bad; before he'd felt pretty poor, but now he felt downright bad. "You think I'm crazy but I know you're called Bones. And I saw her. In the dress. In here. And there was a girl with blonde hair…"

"Listen, kid, as far as I'm concerned, everything in this place is crazy. You, me, her, Blue and your pointy eared friend. I don't know who I am, where I am or how I got here but I have a very particular set of skills which suggests I knew a lot more not so long ago. So, yeah, I think you're crazy but I am pretty damn sure the rest of are too. Now, shut up."

He did but not because Bones told him too. Shutting up kept his head from vibrating with sounds which made his mind erupt in discomfort and confusion. It was not unbearable pain-- that came from his much abused feet instead-- but a disorienting twinge rapidly pounding its way through his skull. It struck him the worst when he pondered on the memories and so, for the moment, he retracted to regular thoughts such as, who he was, who these people with him were, and how very, very much he would like to sleep. Even with Bones's persistent cajoling, he kept nodding off. The occasional pats on the cheek brought him around, enhanced by sudden bursts of nausea. By the time the accented man had reappeared with the woman who'd worn the red dress, he was slumped into the corner of the couch not even trying to help Bones stem his bleeding. He was tired, cranky and desperately empty.

"Ye look worse every time I look at ye," Blue told him. "Maybe ye're allergic."

Bones rolled his eyes. "Darling, do me a favor and hold this. I'm going to see if anything in here looks useful." The girl took up his position next to the couch, grimacing a bit at the bloody cloth. He studied her carefully as she leaned closer and there was no doubt in his mind that she was the same woman from his vision. Even though it hurt much worse to think about, he double checked her hair, facial features and barely there curves and the results were conclusive. She was the woman and, when he'd seen her, she'd been close to the man with the pointed ears. That thought reminded him of his earlier decision and he straightened a bit. The accented man had departed by this point-- he saw a flash of blue shirt as he rounded the corner and out of sight-- and Bones was pawing through various odd instruments.

"I'd like to stay out in the shed," he garbled and then swallowed down a bout of blood.

The woman raised an eyebrow at him. "Hold still."

"What?" Bones raised his head from his med kit. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He cleared his throat and marveled at how the couch he was on swayed. Dropping his head down to the edge of the couch, much to the woman's distaste, he repeated. "I'd like to stay out in the shed. My traveling companion is staying there. It wouldn't be fair if I stayed here." Somehow, it made sense to him. Solidarity with the weirdo or something; he was a weirdo, too, after all, with his sudden flashes in memory.

"You're out of your fucking mind," Bones growled. "You're too sick to be anywhere other than inside and in a bed. And if you don't remember, he attacked you, kid. He's not exactly a welcomed house guest."

"He didn't attack me," the traveler said for what must've been the fourth or fifth time. His vision was going a bit funny and his words were coming out thick, split in syllables and almost incomprehensible. "He was trying to find out who I was. He was helping me..." The orange-grey tear came to mind. "Helping me remember..."

The woman pressed harder. "Gruff, he's really bleeding bad here."

"Hence why he's making no friggin' sense." He turned back towards the couch, hypo in hand. "Sorry, kid, but you're a patient and he's an unknown. You both gotta stay where you are." And before the traveler could even think to pull away, he jabbed the hypo into his neck. His world faded about him gently going from colored to black and white, then mixing to grey. His last thought was that all of this was somehow connected and that it was up to him for figure out how.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** A quick post betwixt paper writing and thesis finishing. I hope to get more done soon. Thank you for the reviews! Enjoy!

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Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that there isn't an invisible demon about to eat your face.

--Harry Dresden, _Storm Front_, Jim Butcher

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He stood in his dress clothing-- not a uniform today, but instead, a fine, well-tailored suit with only a medal with an insignia to indicate that he was an officer-- with a glass of good, dry wine and the feeling that something was not right about any of this. About him, people he knew mingled with each other, flitting around about like the butterflies of Verde IV. There were tables full of food, ranging from deviled eggs-- a delicacy he enjoyed but refused to partake of tonight-- to something squiggling and orange that looked like an octopus made of gelatin. In the center, lovely floral arrangements stuck out brightly in hand painted vases. The edges of each table had plates and eating implements of all shapes and sizes, guarded by serving men who were better dressed than he was. It was overkill, too much and completely out of place somehow. He felt as though he'd taken a step out of his ship and tripped into a completely different universe.

Someone moved up next to him and stood at his elbow. He too carried a glass though his clearly held some form of liquor. His outfit was similar, differentiating only in the color of his medal which was blue instead of yellow. He gazed about at the people as well and the two of them stood in companionable silence for a bit.

"What's bothering you?" the man standing next to him finally asked. "I'd expect you to be charming any number of the young ladies here and you surprise me by standing in a corner, looking like the whole world's about to come crashing down."

He shrugged and sipped his wine, letting his arm wrap around his middle. "It's nothing big, Bones. I just feel like something's off here. Probably something I ate." The dismissal was more for his friend's benefit than honesty. After all, he hadn't consumed anything today.

"Gotta see a conspiracy everywhere, huh?"

He shook his head. "No, as a Captain, it's my duty to sniff out fishiness."

"And you've got the overwhelming stench here?"

"Something like that."

"All right," Bones swirled his alcohol, "I'll bite. Give me a hint as to where water dwelling creature odors are emanating from. And don't say Ensign Tr'klena because it wasn't funny the first twelve times."

He couldn't pin point it beyond the fact that this place gave him a fluttering sensation in his stomach. It should not, he knew, and he understood McCoy's conspiracy theorist comment. He tended to see plots in the shadows and he was right more than he was wrong which only encouraged the habit. Here, there should not have been an issue, however; this place, a neutral planet, had been carefully scoured by Starfleet on numerous occasions. Their mission here was not only simple, it had actually gone as planned; almost smoother than planned, he noted darkly. Not only that, but the hosts, the pale couple in the corner, had long been friends of the Federation and willingly allowed Starfleet to partake in their acquired knowledge. They had happily given Kirk's crew their latest updates and even invited them to spend their last night on the planet at this glamorous party. Long friends of the Federation, though not a part of it, he'd decided it would have been a gesture of ill will to decline and had allowed most of his crew to beam down for a night of shore leave. Beautiful outfits were provided, good food was served, and he was most obviously the only person not enjoying every second of it.

"Ever feel like someone's screwing with you?" He answered a question with a question. "Because that's how I'm feeling right, now."

"I know exactly what you're talking about," Bones informed him. "Though mainly because one Captain of the Starfleet won't give me a friggin' straight answer."

He fidgeted and pulled at his collar. "Fuck off." His friend raised an eyebrow at him and he huffed. "What?"

Bones shrugged. "Oh, nothing, I'm sorry I asked."

"Bones…"

"I'm sure there's a completely reasonable answer why your sulking like a piss ant."

"I am not sulking," he snapped. "I just don't like this. At all." He chewed at his lip and frowned. "What do you know about the Netwix twins?"

"Julie and Jones?" Bones inquired. "Nice pair of people, Jim. Reclusive but brilliant. They restored this old place themselves and have categorized the antiques. Made an uncountable amount of discoveries as you well know. Why?" The two men met each other's eyes and McCoy let out a short burst of laughter. "Oh, come on, Jim. For fuck's sake, they're scientists. Do you really think they'd be stupid to plot something with us here? The two of them with four hundred of us and Starfleet well-aware of our location?"

He scowled. "I don't know, Bones. Something just doesn't feel right about them. Them and their creepy pictures of half-dead people."

"I will not deny you that their taste in decorations is disturbing," Bones acquiesced. "But I'm betting they came with this place. Julie said they restored everything to its original format. The only updates are in the kitchen and bathrooms for convenience." He drained his glass. "Seriously, Jim. Lighten up. Just because there are shadows in the corner doesn't mean the darkness is creeping up on you. Okay?"

"Whatever you say, Bones," he returned, setting his glass down on the tray of a passing waiter. They stood in silence for a moment, Kirk pulling at his cuffs and McCoy letting the ice cubes in his glass clink about. "Do you know where they are from originally?"

Bones rolled his eyes. "You just can't let it rest can you?"

"I just want a conversation topic," he said, holding his hands up. "Seriously."  
"Not a clue," the man said airily. "Go figure it out yourself." He clasped his friend's shoulder. "And be nice."

"Nice? I'm always nice."

"You know what I mean," McCoy warned. "Be… diplomatic. Remember, they're your hosts." And he melted away into the crowd.

He surreptitiously flicked his friend off and stayed where he was for a bit, people watching and trying to control the creeping in his limbs and stomach. From his vantage point, the male twin was visible slipping through the masses, only pausing to smile and trade the occasional word. He grabbed another glass of wine before pursuing the man, grimacing at the slightly bitter flavor. Deserting it on a table, he caught up with Jones and edged around a group of Engineers in order to step in front of him. Jones stopped immediately, his thin features confused and then falsely friendly. He held out his hand immediately, a smile on his effeminate lips.

"Captain James Kirk," he greeted. "I was wondering when I would get the pleasure of speaking to you on more casual terms."

He took the hand and dropped it as fast as he could. "Well, we've both been busy getting things done, Doctor Netwix. And you've out done yourself. Throw a damn nice party even if the costumes are a bit…" Diplomatic, diplomatic; tact, tact, "odd."

Netwix's face did not change, giving it a mask like quality. "Ah, yes, we wished to make everyone as comfortable as possible. And the outfits give the party a bit of life, wouldn't you say? Instead of the majority of people being in their dress uniforms, the men can be striking in suits and the women can be at their most beautiful in silken gowns."

"Excellent idea," he assured, forcing a smile on his lips. His whole body was on edge. "And, excuse my bluntness but your file was so vague, how exactly did you come across this mansion? I've always had a bit of interest in archeology," a lie, "and it is very unique."

"Jones!" A swirl of fabric interrupted him and the second Dr. Netwix approached, her overlarge eyes and pale skin giving her an innocent appearance. "Oh, I'm sorry, Captain. I thought my brother was trying to ignore his guests once again. He's ever so apt at disappearing into corners."

"Just fine," he said, his lips straining against the smile. "You look lovely tonight, Dr. Netwix."

"Why, thank you," she said, her grin filled with slightly pointed teeth. "And you look absolutely dapper in your suit. You could so easily have been a man from this culture a thousand years ago. Goodness, I'm sure the ladies are all over you."

"Oh, I don't need the suit," he forced the civility and the play, "my sharp wit and adorable personality are enough."

She laughed but it was obviously contrived and it was all he could do to keep the corners of his lips turned upwards. Jones mildly patted his sister's arm and she calmed herself. "Julie, my love, Captain Kirk has just informed me that he wishes to know more about our studies. I was thinking of taking him for a tour of our libraries. Would you survive here without me?" His hand brushed her cheek and a shiver traced its way up Kirk's spine.

"See, Captain?" Julie pouted but it was not endearing to him. Usually, he was a sucker for a good pout. "Always running off to escape fraternization." She kissed her brother on the cheek. "Of course, love, take him off. I'm sure you'll both enjoy it. Jones does love to talk about our work and your Doctor McCoy says you love to learn, Captain Kirk."

"Always a fan of new information," he agreed, wondering what else Bones had said and what had put the Doctor into such a chatty mood. "And I must admit a fascination with actual books."

"Then you will not be disappointed!" Julie exclaimed. "For books, we have a plenty, as you can see here in this room. The library is magnificent." She curtsied. "Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen. I shall see you upon your return." And she swept off with the fluttering of skirts and smiles.

Jones cleared his throat and beckoned for him to follow. "Please excuse my sister, Captain. Party atmosphere brings out her exuberant side and sometimes she forgets her manners."

"She's wonderful," he lied. "Really a beautiful woman. Must get lonely for her down here."

Jones paused as he came to a door and pressed on it. "We are all the company we need."

"I'm sure," he backtracked a bit, acutely aware that he was about to go somewhere, alone, with a man he barely trusted. "I mean, she must get lonely for other women and, maybe, an… appreciative man." The high speech and politeness were driving him fucking crazy but he got the impression if he didn't keep it up, Jones would become even less helpful..

"We are all we need," Jones repeated as they went down a darkened hallway, towards a dimly lit room ahead. "We and our books to help us. As you saw back in the receiving hall, we have many books here. This culture was in love with books-- fantastical, historical, religious, they are all here."

Glad for the change of topic, he followed it. "Really? Are they all bound books or did they have computer storage?"

"They had computers," Jones told him as they entered the room. "But books were their love. Even when most of the other information on this planet could be accessed digitally, books were still produced and read."

Even with the discomfort of the other man's presence, he could not help but be awed by the library. The ceiling here was much higher than in the other room, spiraling upward like a tower. The shape of the room itself was circular and the walls had shelves build into them all the way up to the rafters. These cascading hollows were filled with books of every shape, size and color, foreign scrawling decorating their binding with titles. Tall ladders leaned against the shelves to allow for easier access but even the tallest one did not reach the last shelf near the roof. A chandelier hung from the pinnacle of the ceiling and the candles in it glowed gently, giving the place an ethereal quality. At the arches over the windows, different inscriptions lay pure and gold.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" Jones whispered.

"Impressive," he replied in an equally soft tone. In the center of the room were tables, laden with even more precious tomes. "Is that Latin, there on the one window?"

"Indeed it is, Captain," Jones said. "While we did our best to keep this place in it's original formatting, my sister and I did wish to add in little touches of our own. We both find the language of your Ancient Rome to be similar to that of our home world and therefore, soothing."

"And where's that?" he asked. "Your files with Starfleet were kinda limited."

Jones studied him, his fingers trailing over covers. "Why Ghengis II, Captain. Surely that was available to you?"

His idea that maybe these were not the Doctors Netwix didn't fly out the window so much as perch precariously on the sill. He cleared his throat, "Uh, yeah, of course. Sorry, I forgot. Good schools there?"

"The best outside the Federation," Jones informed him. "We studied a great deal from a very young age and are considered to be the experts in the field of xenoanthropology."

"Impressive," he intoned again. He changed the topic. "And so you preserve books?"

"Knowledge, Captain, knowledge. These books are knowledge of a society practically lost. My sister and I have spent many hours here attempting to restore and translate as many as possible."

He did not follow Jones as the man paced about the library. "Tough job but someone has to do it, right?"

"We love it, for us it is not work but an honor," Jones murmured, his voice distant. "A great honor."

The fervor in his host's voice was disconcerting at best. He swallowed and gently grasped a book with a tattered spine and peeling scrawling words. "I can see why." Silently, they stood, Jones now staring at him. "Tell me, who's jurisdiction do you fall under? I know Ghengis II is not part of the Federation but I'm unfamiliar with their colonization rules."

"My dear Captain," Jones began, as though speaking to a particularly unintelligent student. "It would almost seem as though you didn't read any of the information provided to you. This planet, Kh't'sta as the natives called it so long ago, belongs to no one. It is a sanctuary of knowledge to those who wish to learn from it. That is why my sister and I give as much as we can to the Federation, to everyone. Everyone must learn what they can for a worldly mind without the freedom of knowledge is one of the worst possible things. Untrustworthy, unpredictable, lacking in plausible decision making."

"So a child's mind is the darkest place imaginable?"

"Nay, you misunderstand me," Jones said, placing one of the books back on the shelf. "A tamed, well-trained mind is necessary for organized society to exist. The only thing better is a spotless mind, like that of a young child."

He set the book down, a chill creeping up his spine. "Sorry for the misunderstanding. I'm just impressed by your achievements and want to discuss your work." His senses called for him to evacuate everyone immediately. "Sometimes, or so I've been told, I come off a bit strong."

"I understand, Captain, and could say I, similarly, am enchanted by you. A Starfleet Captain at age twenty-five, before graduation or any service at all; the youngest Captain ever appointed. And, so many successful missions, the strongest crew and best ship in the fleet. I've been told you have a genius IQ and a distinct gift for knowing how things, and people, work." Jones's voice would have, for anyone else, supported his words but he'd spent enough time with an even-tempered, emotionally suppressed first mate to know that underneath the modulated tone was something completely the opposite. "With that said, you should know we welcome curiosity and debate here with open arms. I would request that you do not hold back whatever is on your mind."

An obvious challenge which he sidestepped, for the moment, until he knew he could escape. "Tell me more about this place, then, if you will. Like the pictures that are out in the hall—they're kind of gruesome, don't you think?"

"From your point of view, most certainly," Jones acquiesced. "I am sure, of course, you are familiar with the phrase memento mori?"

"Of course." He ran a hand down his neck to relieve the hairs standing on end.

James nodded. "Yes, this culture was highly fixated on the idea of death and the ephemeral quality of the universe. This household belonged to one of the higher class, hence the grandeur of the images in the pictures. Tradition dictated that the families would be painted in their best clothing but as corpses in order for them to never forget that in the end, we all will meet our doom."

"Morbid," he said, referring to the reverence in the man's tone as much as the idea of it. The room had taken on an overly warm quality as the adrenaline surged through his veins. He was hyper aware of every little sound and the distance between himself and the exit..

"Perhaps, but it was inline with their religious beliefs. They had, on this planet, a singular religion or system of beliefs in which all partook," Jones opened the book up and turned it towards him. "Many memorized its passages and children were taught from very young ages the basic writings you see before you. The Book of Truth, this part is called. Here," he removed, from a stack of papers, a sheet and placed it on the pages, "is the translation. Read it. You may find it enlightening."

He picked up the paper. "Paper and ink?"

"My sister and I find it more soothing to write our findings on paper first, and enter it into the computers later. After all, our energy sources are often limited here. While this planet is abundant in natural resources, we have yet to tap into its main system of power. Even if we could, we are a bit wary of doing so lest an interface malfunction cause complete failure of the entire matrix."

He stopped himself from reading, raising his eyebrows. "Bad circuits? What sort of power system is it? My engineers are excellent."

Jones's eyes met his and his stomach dropped somewhere near his knees. It was strange because they were, without a doubt, normal eyes. No extraordinary color or shape differences were present-- they were a hazel color and large like his sister's eyes-- but somehow they set him on edge. Maybe it was the fact that they presented no emotions, no feelings and no depth; not like he'd been particularly good at using eyes for detecting those sort of things but any idiot could sense a void. Or maybe it was the fact that there were no little red blood vessels in the whites of the eyes. But whatever it was, he found himself speechless-- no, not speechless, unable to speak-- as the two of them locked gazes.

"I have read of your Mr. Scott and know of his abilities," Jones spoke first but did not break away from the staring. "But as that is part of your file, I am certain you know that our power sources and the science arc of this planet are strictly classified. My instinct, however, is to trust you and your wisdom so I feel comfortable giving you a bare bones outline of what is here. Forgive me if I decline the help of your Mr. Scott."

"By all means," he said, stiffly, pulling at his collar. "I can't force you to accept."

"No, you can't, can you?" The silent implication asked what he intended to do about it. "Back at the peak of this planet's civilized years, the main form of transportation was a singular road. It ran through the forest you see outside and had no bridges, breaking points or endings." Before he could ask for clarification, James continued. "How, I am sure you are wondering, can a road do that? The answer may seem ludicrous to us but the fact is, this planet survives on a multi-dimensional plane. Each piece of the planet exists in a separate space. What you see from your ship, I am certain, is one fairly tiny planet with a great deal of woods, two large oceans and a singular river. Once you are down here, however, you experience multiple planets and places. The way people traveled was by taking certain marked exits off the path. Place one foot into the woods and then when you turned back you would be on a new path. It was all about memorizing the indicators, of course, and people who were not from the planet often got horribly lost and would die. But the idea is, in fact, ingenious. My sister and I have found maps and done a few journeys ourselves. Maybe you should try sometime. It would prove to be most soothing."

His personal experience with dimension traveling beings kept him from shooting it down as immediately ludicrous. All the same, he had to work to keep his face passive and focused on the papers in his hands in order to do so. They trembled slightly with strain and endorphins.

"You said, this was a religion of death," he said slowly, after scanning the document. He hoped that Netwix had not noted his change of pace. "But to me, this just sounds like a book about truths of life. Like the one that begins, 'This is a place not made in the fabric of reality…' just seems to be talking about fate or destiny. And the other one, the one about energy, is talking about how pure happiness can never be achieved." The heat in the room was nearly unbearable. "How does that apply to a death culture?"

Jones shrugged. "I couldn't imagine it would make much sense to anyone from this time and place. But, then again, we don't expect anyone to understand."

Julie came in, ruining his chance to ask for an explanation, her dress drooping a bit. She looked tired, older, somehow. "Brother, I really must have you back now in order to…" She trailed off when she saw him standing there. "Oh, Captain, I did not realize you two were still speaking."

"Is everything all right?" he asked, taking in her mussed appearance. His voice cracked a bit and he frowned at himself. The room had taken a blurry edge to it.

"Fine, fine," she waved a hand, "everything's fine. Just enjoying the life and splendor the Federation brings to this place." She pulled at a strand of hair. "Do you like our books, Captain?"

He nodded and fought a head rush. "As I've said before, I am a sucker for beautiful books. Do you use that dimensional thing to store more in here?" He meant it as both a distraction and a joke as he slowly headed towards the exit.

Julie stared at him as though he was crazy then glanced at Jones who gave her a very odd smile. Then she turned back to him, her eyebrows half-way up her forehead. "You know of our technology?"

"Uh, your brother just shared the little known secret of this place," he said, now ten feet from escape where he intended to find Spock and plan a mass exodus.

Her pale lips curled up. "All of it, did he?"

"Of course not, darling," Jones soothed, taking the strand of hair from her. "I left the best part for you to deliver. I have to say, he's fought the charms quite well."

"He hasn't eaten anything," she sniffed, "that's part of it. Though he has had something to drink. You look pale, Captain. Why don't you sit down?"

He swallowed. "I'm all right, actually. But I'd like to know what the fuck is going on." His voice had gone very, very low suddenly and he couldn't get it to go any louder. "Now."

"Tut, tut," she scolded. "I can't give away all of our secrets." She sighed. "With all of his struggling, he's going to be quite useless to us."

Jones placed a kiss on her cheek. "So true. I suppose he'll have to wander."

"And the doctor as well as a few others," a wistful expression crossed her features. "Oh how I'd rather have kept them all. Doctor McCoy especially; he is so very appealing." And as if on cue, he started to fall, a swirl of crystal chandelier and worn covers coating his view. "Oh my, well, you should've sat down." Then nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five, finally up. I apologize for the wait but I have finally--happily--completed my degree and am hoping to have more time to write for pleasure. Apologies for the typos in the last chapter. They will soon be rectified. Take the ones here with a grain of salt but most of all, please enjoy. **

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_Progress always involves risks. You can't steal second base and keep your foot on first. _

--Frederick B. Wilcox

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Even with the memory—for it had to be a memory and not a dream because no dream was so detailed and so bright and so full—imprinted on his mind, he was uncertain as to who he was as he made his way towards consciousness. It attempted to escape him, to fling itself beyond his waning grasps but he clung to it with all the voracity of a child with a new toy. Bit by bit, mirroring his ascent into the physical world, he picked it apart, seeking facts and information he otherwise had been deprived of. The basics were glaringly obvious and he tucked them away in the safest points possible. The smaller ideas he poked and shoved into categories-- interesting, important, telling, clue-- and even things that seemed irrelevant ended up in the recycling bin of possible evidence.

In the end, before he tried to open his eyes, he'd come up with a high number of interesting truths. For one, he knew his name to be Captain James Kirk and that he worked for Starfleet and something called the Federation.

The man who was the doctor was a friend-- he'd known this previously, felt a closeness with him even more so than the man with the accent or the man with the pointed ears-- and a fellow soldier. His name was Bones but also Doctor McCoy.

More importantly, he knew that they'd all been in this house before their memories had been wiped, all attending some sort of party. It was the same house-- dirty, old, derelict but no doubt the same-- belonging to the twins or whatever had stolen their identities for a nefarious purpose.

They'd taken people and put them in the pictures? It sounded ludicrous but it was what he recalled them saying it as the world had blackened about him.

And they'd doomed him, McCoy and a number of others to wander because they hadn't eaten.

And he realized, as his body started to return to him, that none of it was enough. The urgency and nerves that had nearly consumed him in the memory filled him now as he lay still, very still, wrapped in blankets. He had to get them all out of here, he had to fix whatever the twins had started and he had to save the crew who'd unwittingly been sucked into this. There had to be something more that he was missing, he thought as he managed to twitch his fingers against the blanket twisted around his hand. The puzzle is there before you, a voice that was not his own whispered, now use your brain and solve it. Everything you need you already know. You just need to put it together the right way. He tried running through the memory again, ran his fingers over every detail in every category and found himself drawing a blank once more.

He needed someone to bounce ideas off of, someone to point out the tiny things he'd missed and help him twist the facts in a new fashion. This would require rejoining the coherent world and while he was partially there already, he vividly recalled his last interaction there and was loathed to return to it. The pain, the blood and confusion had not been conducive to anything more than writhing on a couch.

Contending against him with this was McCoy's and the beautiful woman's firm belief that he was delirious. They had both utterly refused to think he was correct and, begrudgingly, he admitted he could not hold it against them. It made more sense to assume that he was out of his mind than to concede that a bleeding, dying young man knew their names or what they'd worn when even they could not remember it. If he was in their shoes, he would not believe himself either.

Even so, he would try anyway if he thought he could find someone who would believe him. If he could convince just one of the four people he was with that the information he had was accurate, then he would not only have a sounding board for future speculations but also an ally. There was no way to win over Bones-- he already knew that-- and he wrote off the woman who seemed ready to agree with the doctor without question. This left the accented man and the man with the pointed ears. The man with the accent-- Blue, he decided, because that's what Bones called him-- also leaned towards McCoy's lead. While he did not completely discount Blue, he did not think he would be the optimal choice. That left only the man whom he doubted he would be able to reach if Bones had a say and even so, the man was so built on logic, he was uncertain that the man would listen to him unless he could show him.

His mind jerked back to the supposed torture, how the man had said he was trying to discover what was behind the mental barriers erected in his mind. If the man could do that, surely he could view the recovered excerpt of their past. That would be enough to convince even the greatest skeptic. And once the man was on his side, he would have the perfect person to help him analyze what had occurred, the perfect person to direct him towards the best course of action. Yes, that was what he would have to do. He would have to escape the doctor's clutches, however briefly, and make contact with the man. Hopefully with his revelation, Bones would back off long enough for them to discuss things.

His decision reached, he allowed his body and mind to fully connect. Physical sensation smashed into him with a fierce determination that almost blew his mind away. He did not hurt, surprisingly, beyond the dull throbbing of his damaged feet. His head felt surprisingly normal though a bit tight, as though something had been pressed about it. In fact, everything felt as though it was bound in one large piece of cloth. It was as though he'd rolled about at night and his sheets had twisted around him except he could not find an escape. He pressed with his fingers and toes but the cloth stayed in place. It stretched a bit beneath his pressure but overall retained it shape.

He took in a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm, and found that it had spread over his face as well. Something hit him forcefully across the chest, not painful, but spread out. It knocked the air from his lungs which was bad because he was a step from screaming for help. Another blow came, across his legs this time, and a third, onto his left arm. It aligned itself with whatever had surrounded him and pinned him, forcing him to lie still, to be compliant. A fourth dropped onto his face, blocking out his air, and he renewed his fight against his restraints. A fifth and sixth chained him further to wherever he was-- he realized it was damp, cool and not pleasant-- and by the time the seventh hit, he was starting to wonder if maybe this was an intricate torture created by the twins themselves to prevent him from achieving his goals.

It certainly was effective if nothing else. His body, though not hurting as it had before, was weak, tired and incapable of any extended motions. Voices sounded far above him, barely audible over his distressed breathing, the words unrecognizable to his ears. They argued, he noted as he wheezed, vehemently, not hearing him as he tried to call out to them. His thoughts, twirling about in circles, half-destroyed by panic, got lost somewhere between their conception and his mouth so that his words were shadows of language. But, it did not matter; soon the voices were gone, fading away and he was left bound and weighted and alone. His fingers were claws straining for freedom and his fear had given him strange bursts of strength but he did not think it was enough. He was suffocating, dying, so close to discovering who he was and--

His finger found a hole in the fabric, touching dampened soil. A second finger escaped the same way and then a third. With work, he managed to force them all through until even his wrist was brushing against the ground instead of fabric. It was hope given back to him in a flash and instead of the usual draining effect of relief, he felt a surge of life which bolstered his movements. Focusing his attentions on progress, he twisted his arm so that his hand touched the mixture of dirt and fabric over his lower trunk. Precision was his friend as he dug under the grit and began to peel away the linen, dictating dexterity he did not fathom possible as worn as his body was. It had him pull, tug, twist, move and finally, procured an end to the fabric.

During this process, he'd gained freedom for his arm up to his elbow and loosened the overall grip of the cloth on his body. Rolling out was not as easy as he'd've thought it would be mainly because as he pulled one way and forced his body another he discovered a wall in the way of his movement. Surprised but not deterred, he switched tactics and tried moving the opposite direction only to find another solid area. Wherever he lay restrained his movement to barely his shoulder width across. A perfect fit, he deduced, his stomach clenching for some reason buried in his subconscious. It forced him to check his movements as he continued and wrestle harder against the forces working against him. By this point, he was gasping and his chest was tight with more than just fear of not escaping.

His face suddenly came free and he gulped in fresh air with gusto. About him, deep brown dirt dripped down in tiny avalanches, marbled in color by strains of stones and tiny, withered grass roots. It rose upwards, leaving him with a rectangular window of the darkened sky above him. Tiny pinpricks of light decorated the vast deep blue space and despite everything, he wondered at it like a child, letting out a soft sigh at it's beauty and the expounding comfort it gave him. It felt like home up there and, maybe it was if a Starship was truly a ship that sailed within the greatness of space. His breathing evened out slowly until he could almost intake air through his nose in a peaceful, at rest manner.

His next actions in disentangling his body were slower, more careful and less worried. Every time a binding fell away, he paused to look up at his freedom so that the stars could fuel his escape. By the time he had both arms free and was unwrapping in a deft, calculated manner, he'd firmly placed himself on the appropriate path for seeking answers. The panic was gone as were most of his concerns about failure and success; he would win, no matter what the costs and get back to his home in the air. He would save all of those people who had vanished and the people with him right now. It was his duty.

He shoved the sheet-- for once it was completely separated from him, he concluded it had the same look as the coverings over the furniture in the house-- into a corner and with trembling legs gained his feet. Vertigo had him staggering, bouncing off the walls and feeling a bit nauseated but he felt surprisingly okay once the head rush ended. He could see clearly, hear accurately and while he would win no endurance runs, he felt confident that he could hunt down the man with the pointed ears.

His confidence included getting out of the hole which was, he discovered upon standing, rather deep. His eyes were level with the puffs of green grass above so that he could view the surrounding landscape in a limited fashion; there was nothing nearby for him to grab onto other than the short foliage. Latching onto some of the grass on the edge, he worked at scrabbling upwards, bare but bandaged feet attempting to find leverage on the dusty and crumbling walls. His first attempt was unsuccessful but a positive learning experience; the grass tore up as he applied weight but digging his phalanges into the dirt both in the hole and underneath the grass kept him from falling completely backwards. A second attempt, this time using his digging prowess, proved to be the proper way of doing things and he scaled upwards inch by inch, the night darkened surroundings becoming more real as he got his body into them.

The trees, dark sentinels of the landscape, became individuals instead of a blackened conglomeration, and the house, a great towering mass stood out near them, flickering lights in its windows. Between the two stood a rundown building which had a solitary glowing light in it and he directed himself that way as he pulled his legs up under him and took a moment to orient his tired body. He knew that this had to be the shack the man was being held in; sensed it deep inside himself and followed it with confidence that should not have been his.

Getting to his feet was more difficult than it had been down in the hole. He nearly tumbled back in when his body started swaying but managed to trip forward instead. His feet, only distantly painful before, had built up their protests and were now writing him a list of wrongs that he'd enacted upon him. Shifting from foot to foot and wincing, he wondered if the rest of his body would soon follow suit and waited for more symptoms to set in; but he was gratified to discover that still, his biggest burden was exhaustion even if a flicker of a headache was threatening. Taking this as another sign, he started his journey to the shack, eyes drifting between the silent woods and the house, hoping that neither man nor beast would emerge to stop him.

He refused to let his mind wander from the task at hand, distantly aware that if he thought too hard about what was in the woods, or in the house he would lose his concentration and falter. He also avoided the tickling worries about the hole itself, about why he'd been down there and who had been burying him alive. Those would not only distract him but bring back the oppressive claustrophobia of being trapped in a hole, in his mind, in a dangerous situation; and he had no time for any of that. So, he let his eyes fixate on the light, his mind stand firm on it's position as the savior Captain and physically, let his feet savor the dewy coolness of the grass.

The shed leaned slightly to the left and it's door appeared jammed. He twisted the handle and pushed but it did not open. There was a low crunching noise from it and the sound of wood straining against metal as the frame cracked against the pressure he exerted but the door did not budge. He pulled away, studying it and the flickering light he could see behind the misted windows, and found he was low on ideas of how to get in. The most obvious one, opening the door and waltzing through, had not worked and his next involved hobbling back ten steps and crashing into it with all his might. The latter of the two lacked common sense but he figured time was of the essence and cleverness ought to be saved for a different date. Creeping backwards, he judged the distance between himself and the door carefully, wondering if he could get up enough speed to make this at all effective when the door opened on its own. He blinked at the figure, blackened by the light shining behind it.

"They said that you had died and hypothesized it was my fault," the man informed him, surveying his dirty appearance with a critical eye. "They would not listen to my explanations. However, it appears that they have mistaken your condition as dead when you are merely dirty. Clearly, their minds are flawed."

The first thing that came out of his mouth did not negate this statement nor remotely imply to his intentions. "If you can get out, why are you letting them keep you in there?"

"It is a comfortable enough shelter and they have provided me with sustenance," the man said, his eyebrows twitching. "I see no reason to force myself on an aimless journey when I can easily, and somewhat comfortably, survive here until I discover what has happened to me."

It made sense. "Oh." Then he shook his head clear and forced focus. "Listen, I need your help."

"Explain," the man said but he appeared intrigued.

For a moment, Kirk remained silent, trying to judge the man's character one last time. The cold, quiet indifference still stretched over his features but Kirk could spot the different emotions about his eyes and eyebrows as though they had carefully settled all of their might in that singular place. This was definitely the right person to talk to. "I think I know what happened to us."

"Us? Are you suggesting that we have all experienced the same phenomenon?"

He nodded. "It's logical, isn't it? None of us remembered who we are, or what we did, or how we got here, right?"

"You employed the use of past tense," the man picked apart the sentence. "Am I to assume that this has somehow changed?"

His lips twisted a little and he let his teeth show in a combination snarl and smirk. "I remember... a little. Not everything but some of the things." He took a tentative step forward, remembering the accented man's statement about his screaming, aware that this could be a truly painful experience. But it was necessary, for so many reasons, one of which was that the man may have created the hole in the first place. He could tear down the rest of the barriers. "You said you could take memories, right? Go ahead and look for yourself. That way it's not hearsay-- it's knowledge."

There was the slightest downturn of lips, the slightest dip of the man's eyebrows. He too stepped forward so that there was barely five feet between them and clasped his hands behind his back. "How did you recall these things and why has no one else?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I thought that maybe you did it. It's like there's a tiny leak in the blockage. Or maybe I'm just special."

"I could not touch your mind through the barriers, no matter how hard I tried. Whatever has happened I was not the cause," the man replied. "And your second option is both irrelevant and non-conclusive. There must be a better explanation."

"That I don't have," Kirk told him, closing the distance between them. "Look at it. Maybe you can figure something out. Right now, I think you are the only person that will believe me and I need your help." He placed emphases the last sentence, threw in some of his feelings-- most especially the isolation, the desperation, the concern-- and waited for the outcome.

The man shifted his weight, not rocking but steadying himself. He straightened his already ramrod posture and studied Kirk with a razor sharp intelligence that made Kirk rock back in turn. Kirk tried to focus on the upper section of the man's face so he could get a read on his emotions but discovered that the man had fixated the mask over that section as well. It was like having a staring contest with a particularly talent statue who took no prisoners, only secured it's position as non-blinking champion. A minute passed, then two and Kirk broke away first, shifting his gaze to the area just beyond the man's head. The man, meanwhile, allowed his hands to drop to his sides and blinked.

"You behave on impulse and emotion," he observed softly, "like the others in the house. You do not strive to find reasonable solutions with basis in facts but rely on what makes you... feel right. I do not agree with this behavior nor do I think that my technique in finding answers will be conducive to your explorations. While I admit to needing facts as to what has happened, I cannot determine how the two of us will work well together and therefore, I conclude that it will be counterproductive for us to try."

He had not expected this entirely, only basically, and he had not designed a good response. He let his mouth run away from him. "Well, how about you take a poke inside my head and we'll figure out an understanding as time goes."

"A plan put together at last moment fails ninety five percent of the time," his companion said as though it explained everything.

"Then let's hope our plan is the other five percent." He stepped closer. "Do it. You'll never know until you try."

A hand lifted up towards his face but hovered inches from him. The man's eyebrows dipped. "I find your logic to be either non-existent or not equatable to the form I am used to. Your optimism and hope are unfounded and your decisions, wild."

"Then we'll make an excellent team," he quipped. "Because you're disgustingly reasonable." And he let the fingers settle on his cheek and temple, feeling a surge of the familiar and a sudden return of the headache. His nose felt wet again. "Hurry up before they figure out your smarter than you look." Which they he referred to, he was uncertain.

"Appearance and intelligence do not correlate," the man replied. "Do not fight me."

And whatever he started, the tiny part of Kirk's mind that survived the on rush of confusion, annoyance, self-disgust and red-hot white daggers of pain, wished this man had not started it. It was not just the pain; it was the myriad of images that swept his vision and brain combined with so many emotions-- at the forefront debilitating frustration-- that crushed what little will he had and had him screaming. He wasn't sure he was physically doing so because he had lost the bond with his physical body. Everything was focused in his consciousness, overwhelming it, stomping it, prying; the man was shuffling through what little he could recall as though he was pulling the pages of a book. Maybe it was gentle but if it was, he would not want to see a violent use of this ability. This invasion in and of itself was so overwhelming that anything greater would destroy him.

Then he gasped, collapsing to his knees, his face so damp it dripped onto the moonlit grass and ran down his neck, into his collar. Worn but whole boots staggered backwards and soon the entirety of the man followed, ass planting onto the ground. In the pale light, Kirk could vividly see the shock on his face accompanied by shining liquid on his upper lip. His lips formed a definite frown and he drew his hands up to support his head, hiding his features from Kirk. Kirk watched him for a moment more but then became absorbed in his own issues, including the dark dripping from his nose and the shuddering weakness in his body.

His head bothered him now, as it had not when he'd woken up from his disturbing grave experience, though it did not come close to what it had been when he was in the house. He let his head bob down to rest against his knees, both regretting his decision and being inordinately pleased with the results. It was obvious to him that the man had found whatever memories he'd recalled or he would not be sitting there stunned, probably bleeding as Kirk did whenever a new image struck him. Step one achieved, he congratulated himself, now to get everyone convinced and don't lose your head in the process. He hoped it felt like a bigger deal than it actually was.

"Fascinating," a hoarse voice murmured. "Truly fascinating."

And then, "Holy shit."


End file.
